


In a Lawless Land

by eternalsojourn



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Canon-Typical Violence, Genre-Typical Violence, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 16:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2587598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalsojourn/pseuds/eternalsojourn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a case containing something called a PASIV. Rumours are that it's incredibly valuable. There's a man known as The Forger. He's wanted all through the west, though his Wanted posters are all but useless when the descriptions of him change from town to town. There's another man known as The Point Man, who will clean up your town for the right price, and if you're the kind what needs cleaning, you'll be quaking in your boots. Through fortune or circumstance, these two men come upon information regarding the whereabouts of this PASIV, and have to team up to collect their treasure. But can they trust each other? And are there others who might stand in their way?</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a Lawless Land

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Preamble](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/82163) by skywalkerspock. 



> Written for [i-reversebang](http://i-reversebang.livejournal.com/) on Livejournal, and inspired by skywalkerspock's [evocative art](http://bauble.livejournal.com/264727.html).
> 
> Many thanks to my lovely beta achaostheorem. You can thank her for this making sense. Any remaining errors are my own, naturally.

_There is a case containing a treasure: something called a PASIV. What it is makes no difference to those who whisper rumours of its existence: only that its worth is more than most people will see in a lifetime. It has been carried safely thus far under the care of one Maurice Fischer. Information on the case’s whereabouts threaten to die with the ailing man, but fortune and circumstance bring the information into unlikely hands, forcing unlikely alliances._

_There is a man who will come, if you know how to find him. He will help you clean up your town, for a price. His ruthless efficiency in doing so is well worth the money. He is known as The Point Man._

_There is another man whose head would be worth a pretty penny if you could find him to bring him in. Known only as The Forger, he is wanted far and wide for everything from fraud to con artistry to outright theft. No two descriptions of the man are the same, making his Wanted posters all but useless. Some say he’s a master of disguise._

_This is their story._

**************

The door squeaked on its hinges, followed by a gust of hot wind sending swirls of dust across the worn wood floor. The shopkeeper turned, one hand still on the bottle of gun oil on the half-stocked shelf.

The man’s boots were well-worn, spurs still attached, and caked in a layer of mud. His clothes were in a similar state, weather-worn and muted with dust. Under his hat the man’s gaze was the only clear thing about him: bright and piercing.

He stood, staring down the shopkeeper for long seconds. Then a movement caught the shopkeep’s eye, a flicker of fingers. A glance showed the man rolling a poker chip over and under his fingers, deft and fast, just once before the chip disappeared again.

The man lifted his chin towards the gun display, then looked pointedly at the countertop. 

The shopkeeper hurriedly began to place gun after gun on the countertop. The man picked one up, peering at its lines and setting it down to pick up another.

“What are you looking for? Perhaps I can recommend…”

The man quelled the inquiry with a look, then went back to his inspections. After examining a few, he began to disassemble one, and then another, and then another. From the assortment he selected parts and nimbly built a new pistol to his liking.

“Testing range out back?” the man said, voice surprisingly soft and lilted with a foreign accent.

The shopkeeper nodded, placing a box of ammunition on the counter and eyeing the stranger warily.

The rear of the building was enclosed by a fence, a small circular target mounted atop a simple stake. The stranger holstered the pistol first, eyes narrowing on the target. 

Without so much as a rustle of fabric, two shots were fired. One put a ragged hole through the centre of the target, but the other appeared to have shot wide.

“Not bad,” said the shopkeeper, lips turned down in moderate respect. 

For the first time the man smirked.

The target teetered, then fell, the stake severed neatly at the neck.

Leaving the shopkeeper standing agape, the stranger tipped his hat, then strode back into the shop and back outside.

It wasn’t until the shopkeep had put away most of the strewn pieces that he realized the man hadn’t even paid.

***

A half day’s ride out of town, Eames rode at a relaxed pace. He saw them from a long way off, a hazy dark smudge amid a sea of dirt and shale. It grew form the closer he got: two horses, one carriage stopped beside the road. Possibly too many to hold up, but as Eames neared, he fingered his holster anyway, unsnapping the leather just to be prepared.

There was no movement bar the occasional snuffling of the horses. Eames slowed his approach.

A groan from within the carriage got Eames down from his horse. He stepped close and stood to one side as he slowly pushed open the carriage door, peering in through the crack. Inside was an old man, pale as an overcast sky and eyes rolling a meandering path towards his unexpected visitor. The man had no obvious signs of injury, and if Eames had to guess he’d say whatever ailed him went along with old age.

“W...water,” he said, arm lifting feebly in supplication.

Eames nodded, tonguing the corner of his mouth. “All right,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Just hold on.”

He returned to his horse, getting his canteen and returning to the man.

The man fumbled the canteen so Eames helped him raise it to his lips. The relief on the old man’s face was instant as he drank a few small sips. Eames helped him until the man dropped his head back, sighing deeply and nearly losing himself to sleep.

“What’s your name?” Eames asked, capping the canteen.

The man drew a long, slow breath before replying. “Maurice Fischer.”

Eames frowned, the name tugging at his memory. He looked around the carriage, seeing no more worth taking than the chest on the floor he’d spied initially.

“Someone coming for you, Maurice Fischer?”

“My. My son. Went to get water,” Fischer replied.

“How long ago?”

Fischer shook his head; he didn’t know. 

Eames hummed, half a grumble. Not much time to dither. “Alright, Mr. Fischer. I’ll be having that chest of yours, and you can keep the water. Let’s hope you make it long enough for your son to return.”

Fischer looked at Eames, and Eames could see that once, when the man was not on his deathbed, he must have been an intimidating force. For even sick as he was, the imperious disdain in his eyes was evident.

Eames flashed his most charming smile, tucked the canteen into the man’s hands, picked up the chest and left.

The chest sat in front of him, its awkward bulk bouncing as he spurred the horse on to as much speed as he dared without losing his prize.

A mile down the road he tucked himself behind a rocky outcropping that he dismounted to peruse his newly acquired chest. It was risky, with the son returning at some indeterminate near future, but the chest was rather large to carry on a single horse and Eames needed to lighten his load. 

The chest contained a few bags of coin, which Eames dropped into his saddle bag, some papers of no worth to Eames, and some trinkets of dubious value. Eames dropped the most promising of them into his bag and the rest he tossed aside. The most interesting piece he found was a half sheet of quality paper upon which was written a few simple words and numbers:

      _PASIV, Duquesne, R12_

Eames had no idea what it meant, but the word PASIV caused earlier events to fall into place. Fischer, connected to rumours of the PASIV. No one knew exactly what it was or what it was for, but its value was coveted among those who sought riches regardless of who rightfully owned them. Eames stared at the paper for long seconds before folding and tucking it into an interior pocket.

Duquesne was a smallish town, no different from a dozen other towns, perhaps a bit smaller and sleepier than most. The only reason Eames knew where it was was because he was wanted there for fraud. If he recalled correctly, he’d fleeced a particularly poncy rich man out of a small portion of his wealth. It was nothing to the man, but very little compared to the indignance of the wealthy. 

Eames remounted his horse and swung around to return to the carriage. R12 could mean anything.

***

The carriage was as he’d left it but there was another horse. The silhouettes were obvious from a long way off and Eames assessed the risk. One horse, one rider, one sick old man. The rider could be the son, or someone new. Unlikely the son went off without a horse, so whether the man was someone new or the son, there would likely only be one able-bodied man to contend with.

Whichever the case, Eames would bet he was the faster draw.

He approached briskly, fast enough to hurry but not so fast as to alarm whoever was there. 

As Eames drew close, a man stepped out: a tall, cool drink of water. The wary way he looked around suggested he didn’t belong there, and Eames would put money on it not being the son. Interesting. Tensed and ready for confrontation, Eames smiled to himself. He’d have to play this carefully. This was always the most fun. He fingered the butt of his pistol, more from habit than from a need to reassure himself of its presence. 

He dismounted.

***  
Arthur saw the puff of dust in the distance, a spot of dark in the centre. Whoever was coming was a few minutes away yet, and not Arthur’s concern at that moment.

The man inside the carriage was as weak as Arthur’d ever seen. His exact illness wasn’t apparent from his appearance, and the water in his hands seemed to be doing nothing to perk him up. Nonetheless, Arthur stepped in and helped the man take some more water.

“Grand…” the man said after taking a long sip.

Arthur frowned. The man shot Arthur a wearily irritated look, then beckoned weakly for Arthur to lean in closer.

“Grand Union. Hotel.” 

“Is that where you need to go?” Arthur peered at the man.

The man let out a breath the might have been a frustrated huff if it had any strength behind it.

“In the… floor. My son. Tell him. He’s back. Soon. The... PASIV.”

Arthur’s gaze sharpened. “The Grand Union Hotel? Where? What city?” He tried to keep his touch gentle on the man’s shoulder, despite his urge to shake the information from him.

“R…” the man looked into Arthur’s eyes for the barest of moments before losing focus. A small breath eased out, and then his gaze faded to nothing.

Arthur clenched his jaw and let out a long, thin breath. He reached out and closed the man’s eyes, then unclipped his pistol and stepped out of the carriage.

The traveller he’d seen approached hurriedly, pulling his horse up and dismounting smoothly. Arthur could see his pistol unclipped but the man merely eyed Arthur warily, making no move to keep his hand near the holster.

“Is he alive?” the man asked, a soft whisky rumble by way of England, if Arthur had to guess. Foreign and apparently not overly concerned with the old man, judging by his manner. Probably not the son, then.

Arthur shook his head, fingers itching to feel the worn-smooth wood of his pistol handle, but he stayed careful to make no aggressive moves.

“You came here in a rush,” Arthur said, leaving the ‘why’ unsaid.

The man gave Arthur a slow once-over before turning to look at the carriage door, eyes the last to move away from Arthur’s form. 

“Did he say anything?”

Eyes narrowing, Arthur levelled a hard stare at him, hard enough that the man looked back towards him. On seeing Arthur’s impatience, the man smirked.

“He had some information. I was coming back to get it,” the man said.

“He might have said something, yeah,” said Arthur. “What’s it worth to you?”

The man produced a toothpick from somewhere in his sleeve and slipped it between his lips, using his tongue to swap it from one side to the other. Arthur tracked the movement, then closed his lips and swallowed. Though he was standing some distance away and the movement subtle, the man appeared to see it and a slow grin spread across his face.

“If you’re willing to sell it, I reckon you don’t have all the information you need to make it worth something to you,” the man said.

Arthur raised an eyebrow at the man’s astute assessment. “And you don’t have all you need or you wouldn’t have come back. What’ve you got?”

“A town. And a number.”

Arthur considered a moment. High risk, high payoff. His lips twitched a smile.

“A hotel and a hiding spot,” Arthur said.

The man laughed. “It appears we have ourselves a situation.” He took the toothpick from his mouth and tongued the corner of his mouth. A sniff. “Name’s Eames.”

Arthur’s brows twitched together. “That your given name?”

“It’s the name I’m giving myself.”

Arthur smirked, a huff of a laugh escaping his nose. “It appears we do have a situation, Eames. I have a proposition.”

“Mm?”

“I believe you know what’s at that location, given how eager you were to come back to get the rest of the information. And if you know what it is, then you know the value of this thing we’re after. Since you’re probably not about to sell me your half of the information and I’m definitely not selling you mine, I propose we set out together and split the proceeds from the prize. Fair?”

“Except once we’re close enough and you guess the town, what’s to stop you cutting my throat in my sleep and taking the prize for yourself?” The man spoke as though he was negotiating the purchase of a whisky, not discussing a possible betrayal to death. Arthur found himself smiling.

“I still don’t know the room number. And at some point we’ll just have to trust each other, don’t you think?” Arthur had no intentions of trusting the man.

“Don’t trust a man with no name,” Eames said.

“Arthur.”

Eames nodded slowly, an almost playful smirk tugging at his mouth.

“All right, Arthur. Partners.” Eames approached finally, stepping just a little too close to be considered a friendly distance. He lifted his hand. Arthur took it, staring him down.

“Partners,” Arthur agreed, caveats hanging in the air.

***

“What the hell were you thinking?” Browning paced the office, pausing at the desk to slam down his empty whisky tumbler. He moved into the golden light streaming in from the window, tiny dust particles catching the light and scattering away from his looming form.

“He was sick, Uncle Peter,” Robert said, steely, still standing by the door. “We had enough water for a two day ride but we had to go slower and slower because the bumps in the road were aggravating him. I went without but he still drank it all. When we ran out, I stopped as near as I could to the tree line and went to find water. What was I supposed to do?”

Browning reached the window and leaned on the sill, knuckles whitening. “He had the location, Robert. He didn’t trust anyone else with that information, not until he could pick it up and see it to the buyer. If he was sick, why didn’t you ask him for that information?”

Robert stared, mouth opening, then closing. He sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. “I was just getting him some water. I didn’t think… I didn’t know…”

Browning’s grip on the sill loosened. He turned, just his head. “I’m sorry, Robert. I know this must be a hard time for you.”

Robert sat down hard in the armchair in front of Browning’s desk. “Thanks, Uncle Peter. I just. I should have been there. I can’t believe he… he died while I was gone. Probably with some highway robber at his side.” He swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut to steady himself.

“I understand you’re upset,” said Browning, pausing to close his eyes in irritation before schooling his features to something more sympathetic. He glanced back at Robert, who wasn’t looking anyway, absorbed as he was with his own fingers dangling between his knees. “Your father,” he began carefully. “Your father wanted you to inherit his fortune.”

“I know, Uncle Peter. That’s hardly the most important thing right now, is it?”

“Hear me out, Robert. A lot of his assets were tied up in that device. He — we all — needed that sale to go through. I know it’s hard to think about but we need to recover that device. Think of all his employees, who won’t get paid if we don’t do this. Think of all of us.”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask for this. For any of it.”

“He wouldn’t have left it all to you if he didn’t think you could lead this company,” Browning said out the window, keeping his face neutral until he’d finished. Then his eyes closed for a second, jaw clenching.

“It’s a lot to take in all at once. He was sick but I didn’t think… I just wasn’t prepared.”

“Well, you don’t have to do this alone.”

“Do what?” Robert’s voice was dull, the question more than half a statement as though he didn’t want the answer.

“We have to get that device, Robert. Whoever took that chest might have the answers we need.” Browning turned around properly and walked over to the credenza to pour a drink into a new tumbler. He walked it over to Robert. “As hard as it may be, there’s no time to lose. We need to leave by nightfall.”

Robert took the sip and turned it a few times in his hands before knocking it back in one go. “All right,” he said, biting his top lip and meeting Browning’s eyes at last. “I’ll be ready in an hour.”

***

The roads between towns provided long stretches of solitude. Eames rode ahead and Arthur followed behind, both of them falling into a steady pace that wouldn’t tire their horses too much. Their route took them through the woods, keeping them cool beneath the canopy of leaves and providing fresh rabbit meat for their first night’s dinner.

They didn’t encounter another soul until the following morning after they’d ridden for an hour. Eames halted suddenly, turning to gesture Arthur to silence. Upon hearing the faintest rustle and what could possibly have been voices a long way off, Eames gestured some more to move off the road. Ignoring Arthur’s heated glare at being given orders and blithely failing to explain, he led them far from the path towards the thickest copse of trees. There they waited long minutes until the other travellers approached. 

Whoever they were, they were engrossed in conversation and didn’t appear to notice any tracks leading off the main road. They passed quickly and Arthur waited until they were well past before asking.

“What was that about?” When Eames didn’t respond, Arthur glared. “A man usually earns some trust before expecting someone to participate in such subterfuge,” he said.

Eames smirked. “Subterfuge?”

“Subterfuge. It means —”

“I know what it means. That’s some fancy talk for someone who’s collaborating with a stranger to steal something what doesn’t belong to him.”

Arthur continued to look Eames directly in the eye, the spark of challenge and hint of amusement keeping him staring. “You ever answer a question, or just dance around in circles?”

“You strike me as the sort who likes a good dance once in a while,” Eames said. “But yes, I’ll tell you what that was about. I’ve made my way by perfectly honourable means, but the law doesn’t always agree with my interpretation. As a result, there are a few sheriffs in a few towns who’d like to have a word with me.”

Suddenly Arthur saw him flipping something red through his fingers, producing it as neatly as he had the toothpick when they first met. Arthur was both impressed and duly warned to watch his pockets with Eames nearby. 

“A few?” Arthur asked.

“Six or seven. Or eight or nine. I’ve lost count,” Eames grinned.

“And this word they’d like with you, is the word ‘rope’ by any chance?”

“Might be. I cleared out before clarifying.”

“So if we’re going to go find this device and we’re to split this bounty, I’m also going to have to help you avoid bounty hunters.” 

“It appears that way, yes.”

Arthur sighed. This is why he preferred to work alone. Partners always seemed to throw a wrench in the works. He shook his head while they both turned their horses back towards the road.

They’d been riding for a little while again before Arthur mused, casually: “What’s to stop me from turning you in for the bounty after we’ve done this job?” He had no intentions of doing so; he didn’t make a habit of turning on those he worked with to earn a payday. But by asking, he thought he’d lay the situation on the table, and hoped that Eames would be savvy enough to understand that Arthur wouldn’t ask if he meant to betray Eames. If they were going to trust each other, they weren’t going to do it in absolute silence with questions in the air like so much dust.

“Nothing at all,” was Eames’s response. “In fact, that sounds like a grand plan. After this is all done, why don’t you turn me in, collect the fee, set me free before I’m strung up like a Christmas goose set to drain, and we split the money?”

Arthur laughed. “That would never work. Too complicated.”

“Mm,” was all Eames said.

***

A day later, in the limited shelter of a rocky overhang, Eames prepared a fire while Arthur dug out some victuals for dinner. Eames glanced up periodically. Twice he caught Arthur watching him, but Arthur just returned to his tasks without a word.

“Days are shortening,” Eames said, whittling pieces of tinder into a pile.

“Mmhmm,” Arthur replied absently while tearing bits of dried beef and dropping it into a pot.

The corner of Eames’s mouth turned up. “Not much for small talk, are you Arthur?”

Arthur stopped his movements, looked Eames in the eye for a long moment, then with a ghost of a smile, went back to his preparations.

“All right then,” said Eames. “No small talk. How about we get right to the real questions? Who are you? What do you do? That is, when you’re not travelling with strangers on missions of thievery?”

Arthur did smile then, but kept his eyes on the potato he was cutting in his palm. “I work with lawmen.”

Startled into silence, Eames stopped whittling. When no follow-up was forthcoming, he said, “Now that doesn’t sound right. What sort of lawman ends up here?”

Arthur sniffed and rubbed his nose with the back of his wrist. “The sort who freelances.”

“Bounty hunter?” Eames asked, incredulous.

“Not exactly. Sometimes towns have… shall we say, persistent troublemakers. Sometimes the lawmakers in those towns ask for help. I specialize in cleaning. I come in, sweep the town clean, collect my fee, move on.”

“You kill them?”

Arthur looked up from under his brow. “Not usually necessary. I find out a bit about the troublemakers, find who they care about. Most have family or loved ones somewhere. They leave ‘em behind but that doesn’t mean they want anything bad to happen to ‘em. A quiet visit in the dead of night, a cozy conversation, a demonstration of my aim. Their situation is usually clear to them by then, and they clear out.”

"You're rather frightening, Arthur. Did you know that?"

Arthur laughed drily. "I've been told that once or twice. It helps in my profession."

"Where are you from? How on earth do you end up freelancing on the side of the law?"

“Well, I tried being a sheriff. Didn't suit. I don't really like to stay in one place long. Besides, I like the research part. I like figuring out people’s secrets. Only so much you can find out if you stay in one place with the same people all the time." Arthur wiped his hands on a cloth and set the pot aside. "Need some water."

“Take my canteen. It’s small but enough for tonight. Gave my other one to the old man. We can stop at the creek first thing in the morning."

Arthur stood and reached for the canteen, then tilted his head to look at Eames's hand before taking it.

"You're a gambler," Arthur said.

Eames frowned at the apparent non-sequitur before nodding in understanding. His fingers; Arthur was remembering Eames's trick with the poker chip.

"I like a calculated risk every now and then, yes," Eames said.

"So I gathered," Arthur said, taking the canteen and letting his fingers brush briefly against Eames's knuckles. Their eyes met and Eames could see something in Arthur's look for an unguarded second: a question, possibly even desire. Arthur's eyes flicked so fast to Eames's lips and then back to his eyes, Eames could almost swear he'd imagined it.

"You like a bit of a wager, Arthur?"

Arthur held the canteen at his side but stayed where he was. "Did you have something in mind?"

"Oh, I'm sure I could think of something," Eames said, letting his gaze carry weight and heat for a naked moment.

"Hm," Arthur said, looking away with a half shrug and a smirk. "Well, let me know if you think of something. Maybe we can discuss it after dinner. Over some cards."

Eames hummed his agreement and went back to stacking the kindling, with rather more cheerfulness than he began.

They prepared and ate dinner in relative silence, though it was companionable enough that Eames found the whole evening quite pleasant.

After cleaning up and getting their bedrolls ready, they sat by the fire with cigarettes. Eames took out his flask and handed it over while he dealt the cards.

Arthur took a sip and raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Good, yes?” said Eames with a bit of pride. “My friend Yusuf, he distills in his shed.”

“Mm. Good man,” Arthur said and passed it back. He picked up his cards.

They played quietly for a time, occasionally passing the flask back and forth and once stopping to roll new cigarettes. After a few hours, the potent liquor was making Eames pleasantly fuzzy-headed and the fire was dying down.

“Last hand?” he asked.

Arthur grunted his agreement and picked up two cards, carefully arranging them in his hand to a perfect notched fan. He tossed in a few more coins.

Eames’s hand was abysmal even after three new cards, and though he had a king of hearts up his sleeve, he didn’t quite feel like using it. The stakes were fairly low, just whatever money they had on them, and Eames was playing a longer game of trust than he usually did. 

He folded.

Arthur squinted at him, piercing. Eames just gathered up the cards.

As they headed to their respective bedrolls, Arthur stopped. 

“Did you come up with something?” Arthur asked. He stood a pace behind, head bowed and looking up from under his brow. “A wager, I mean.”

Eames tilted his head and stepped forward. He brought his hand up to Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur lifted his chin, jaw flexing and meeting Eames’s eyes steadily. Eames’s hand slid up to cup just over the edge of Arthur’s shirt, thumb drawing along bare skin.

“I’m still assessing the odds,” Eames said and gave Arthur’s shoulder a squeeze before dropping his hand. Arthur’s body leaned every so slightly to maintain contact that split second longer and Eames thought his odds were pretty good.

Arthur huffed a laugh. “You don’t win much by hesitating so long everyone else has left the table, Mr. Eames.” He turned and walked away, decisively ending the conversation. 

Eames grinned and prepared himself for sleep.

***

The next morning Arthur woke to the sound of rustling. The sun had only just begun to lighten the sky and wouldn’t be breaking above the distant hills for another few minutes, but Eames was already putting on his boots.

“Just running to get water,” Eames said.

Arthur nodded and after Eames turned his back, ran a tongue over his teeth, the liquor from the previous night tasting stale and dry in his mouth. He climbed out, cool air settling on his skin and pricking up the hairs on his arms.

He opted not to start a fire, even a small one, in favour of getting back on the road. He ate a bit of hard tack and hoped Eames would be back soon with the water to wash it down. By the time he had the bags packed and the horses ready, he started to get concerned. The creek wasn’t all that far away and Eames should have been long back.

Arthur mounted his horse and brought the other with him, figuring once he found Eames they should be getting on the road anyway. 

He saw the signs before getting all the way to the creek’s edge. Crushed bushes, a confusion of footprints and the distinct marks of dragging heels. He stopped long enough to confirm his suspicions, then hurriedly tied Eames’s horse to a tree and galloped off in the direction of the footprints.

Once he got to the road he had no way of knowing which way they’d gone. He chose a direction and slowed his pace. A short way down from where he emerged from the trees a flash of red caught his eye. He didn’t even need to dismount to see a king of hearts on the road. He nudged his horse back up to speed and carried on.

A ways down the road he saw a small path veer off. On a hunch he took it, watching for recent signs of tracks. It was difficult to tell when there hadn’t been rain in so long, but a branch in the road looked recently broken.

Some ways down the path he saw a shack, what might have once been someone's home but was clearly in a state of disrepair. He slowed his approach and assessed: four horses. That wasn't encouraging. Even less encouraging were the sounds emanating from the shack.

The dull, familiar thuds of punches followed by barely suppressed grunts had Arthur wincing. He dismounted and sidled up to a window. He was met with someone's back, startlingly close. Beyond that, Arthur could see Eames being held by one man while another stood with fists at the ready. A fourth man wasn't visible, but it was his voice Arthur heard.

"You know what I'm after. You can make this short. I guarantee you'll tire of this before my men will."

"I don't mind a good wager," Eames answered. "I'll bet on me."

The man laughed and Fists moved forward to deliver a strike to Eames's ribs. The man whose back was in front of Arthur shook his head and sighed.

"Look at him," Eames said through a cough. "He's getting winded already."

Arthur had heard enough. He moved away from the window and while he could hear that more words were being exchanged, he paid more attention to moving as silently as possible around to the rear of the shack.

There he found a small porch three stairs up from the dirt and he cautiously took one step up. The wood creaked and he stopped, listening intently. There was no break in the conversation so he moved forward once more. Fortunately the rest of the porch was more sturdy and he was able to approach the door without a sound. The screen door was hanging so far off its hinges, it presented no obstacle, so all that was left was the door. Arthur envisioned the location of each man and took a deep breath.

With a hard kick beside the door handle, Arthur was shooting by the time the door was fully open. In the blink of an eye the two men with Eames were on the floor with a shot to a leg each, and the hats were blown off the two men standing. Arthur stood with his gun smoking.

"Don't," he said to the man who'd been speaking, who was clearly thinking of going for his gun. "I know we've never met, but I'd be willing to bet I'm a faster draw than you even when I'm not already drawn."

The man stopped moving. The one standing at the window was thin, a bit weedy, blue eyes wide and staring at Arthur. Arthur kept him in his periphery but focussed on the broader, older man who'd been asking the questions. He kept his gaze steady but addressed Eames. "You all right enough to get out of here on your own two feet?"

Eames chuckled but grunted at doing so. Nevertheless he stood, slowly. "Absolutely no problem, darling. I believe these gentlemen had exhausted their efforts anyway."

Arthur spared a glance towards Eames, allowing his mouth to quirk up at Eames's bravado.

In retrospect, that was his error. 

The weedy man by the window had his gun cocked and pointed directly at Arthur, allowing the older one to draw his own. The man at the window had looked pretty harmless, his speed and lack of faltering in his aim taking Arthur by surprise.

“Well. As rescues go, that was… almost impressive, Arthur.” Eames managed to mix amusement and resignation in his tone.

“I’m not the one who got myself caught to begin with,” Arthur replied wryly.

“Touché,” said Eames. 

“If you two are quite finished,” said the older man, “kindly step outside. We’re going for a little walk.”

Arthur and Eames shared a glance, but Arthur hadn’t a clue what to do except follow the instructions, and Eames didn’t appear forthcoming with any ideas of his own. They both exited the shack.

Outside they tied Arthur and Eames’s hands, then strung a rope to tie their feet with just enough slack to walk, and a line between them of about four feet. When the weedy one and the older man had mounted their horses and helped the other two up to theirs, they set out.

Back at the road, they sent the two injured men back the way they had come. 

“The nearest town is due east, should take you a few hours,” said the older man.

“Should I go with them, Uncle Peter?”

“No, Robert, we’ll be taking them the direction they were headed. I’m sure by tomorrow or the next day they’ll be ready to trade their information for some water and a place to rest.”

Arthur clenched his fists and followed when the horses began to move once more.

After a while the man called Peter spoke again.

“I have no doubt you’ll tell me what I need to know eventually, but you should know the thing you’re after is rightfully mine.”

Arthur saw Robert give his uncle a sharp look, but he said nothing.

“Seems to me,” Arthur mused, as though this were a living room conversation and not a tortured probably-death march. “That old man had plans for that package, and it wasn’t for anyone named Peter.”

Robert turned sharply, eyes boring into Arthur. Arthur stared back for a second but looked at Eames, and then back at Peter. “Even if I gave you my bit, you’d still have to crack this one,” he tilted his head towards Eames. “Maybe you’d manage it, but I’m guessing you wouldn’t. I’d say the only way you’re getting that package back is by switching tactics. You catch more flies with honey, isn’t that what they say?”

“You’ll change your tune. When your feet are bleeding and you start to hallucinate from lack of water, let’s see how well you speak then,” said Peter.

They all fell silent but a short while later Robert moved up beside his uncle and bent his head low. Arthur couldn’t hear most of what was said until Robert raised his voice, angrily hissing, “I just want to get it back. Give them —” and the rest was too quiet to hear, just a susurrus whisper.

Arthur smiled. Clearly their two captors were divided, or at least conflicted. Not something Arthur could use while held captive, but if he survived the ordeal, perhaps it would be useful down the line.

***

Eventually the woods gave way to fields, then to desert. They slept in the open, though sleeping was a generous term for shivering and trying not to think about their blistered, bleeding feet. 

At some point in the darkness, Arthur moved close to Eames, who was shivering as hard as Arthur. They took what warmth they could from each other. For his part Arthur tried to rest as best he could, though he managed to drift in and out of consciousness only fitfully.

They marched and marched, and by the next night Arthur’s brain supplied traitorous thoughts: tiny nagging suggestions that he could give the information even if Eames wouldn’t. But he fought it. He didn’t know what kept Eames silent that long, but Arthur had given his word. It might kill him, but he’d die keeping the only thing he had of any value. 

***

For Eames, the third day dawned with a grim sense of inevitability. That would be the day he died. If that was the way of it, then he’d go moving forward. That’s how he did things: always forward. You never knew when life would throw a twist at you, and you couldn’t give up until the very end. Giving up would be its own defeat, and if Eames could hold out a little longer, the prize at the end would be worth it. High stakes, high reward.

He marched.

***

Yusuf saw the group traveling from across an expanse of dirt. The dust made it difficult to see, but as they got closer he could see two figures clearly walking. Well, walking was one term for it. Stumbling was a little closer to the mark.

“Ariadne,” he said, and she looked up from her reverie. They were on their way back from picking up grain and Ariadne rode the horse dragging the wagon with their sacks. They’d set a casual pace and she’d been staring off into the distance.

She squinted at the figures. “What on earth?” she breathed. “Yusuf, they’re tied up.”

On closer inspection, Yusuf saw that she was right. Though he’d been looking forward to trying this new type of grain, a spark of excitement made his breath quicken. “Reckon they need some help?”

Ariadne met his eyes and he recognized the twinkle in her eye. “I’ll unhook the wagon.”

Once she was done, they moved towards the approaching group casually.

“Afternoon,” said Yusuf, tipping his hat and bringing his horse to a halt. He glanced at the tied up men and recognized Eames. Alarm flared in his chest but he kept his face neutral.

The older one nodded, his face polite enough but he said no word.

“Haven’t seen you around these parts before. We’re from just over that hill there.” Yusuf smiled his most disarming smile. “Do you folks need some help? Medical attention perhaps?”

“No, we’re just passing through,” said the younger one.

“Mm,” said Yusuf, nodding slowly. “You know, I think these men should really be seen to.”

“I could take them with me,” Ariadne said. “And you two could carry on your way,” she added pointedly.

“You two seem to have a lot of opinions on something you know nothing about,” said the older one.

Yusuf had edged himself forward, and though the younger one had backed off while he did, the older one held stubbornly still.

“I think you should leave them with us,” said Yusuf, smile dropping.

Everything happened in a rush as the older one went for his gun and Yusuf flung his handful of sand into the man’s face. The younger one began to draw but a shot rang out and he grabbed at his ear, which was bleeding. Ariadne quirked her eyebrow at him in an amused smirk.

By then Yusuf had drawn his pistol as well and for a breathless moment they stood in a tableau: the two ailing men blinking in disbelief, Peter Browning blinking sand out of his eyes, and all of the others holding their poses, waiting for the next move.

Robert moved first, rearing his horse around and galloping off, with Browning close behind. Yusuf trusted Ariadne to take the men to safety while he gave chase.

The hooves thundered in his ears and Yusuf hunched forward, gripping his reins tight. The other two men were fast, but Yusuf kept pace, driving his horse to greater speeds. It was faster than he’d ever gone and Yusuf was exhilarated, unsure what he’d even do if he caught up but galloping headlong anyway.

They ran for ages, a breathless, dusty chase that saw them to the base of some hills, the ground growing rocky and treacherous. Yusuf figured it was far enough for safety’s sake; those men wouldn’t be returning in a hurry. He slowed and turned around, returning home at a more relaxed pace.

***

Ariadne had struggled to assist the sick men into her wagon, but she managed and took them as fast as she dared back to the town. The homestead she shared with Yusuf was a little further off, but her first priority was to get the men some water. She felt bad for them: their lips were cracked, their limbs weak, their eyes unable to truly focus. It was impossible to tell how much was fatigue and how much was dehydration.

She stopped at a trough and wet her fingers, touching them to each of their lips in turn. 

“Not too much, not too fast,” she said them. “Just a little for now. We’ll get you sorted, just wet your lips to start.”

A few gawkers stood around and she turned and frowned at them furiously. “Don’t just stand there being useless, go get the doctor! You there, go. Now!”

The man she’d pointed at had the sense to look abashed and rushed off. 

“Tell the doc to meet me at my place! The house down past the old Russell farm!” she called after him. A hard glare at another man sent him walking, but a little girl stood firm.

“Are they going to die?” she asked.

Ariadne looked at her, then at the men in her charge. “No, they’re just pretty sick. They’ll be all right.”

“They’re pretty lucky,” said the little girl. At Ariadne’s confused look, she added, “‘Cause you found ‘em.”

Ariadne laughed darkly. “They’d have been luckier not to get this sick to begin with, but yeah. I think you’re right. Here, you can help. Run along and get someone to fill my canteen with fresh water. You can catch up to me on the road. Can you do that?”

The little girl nodded, taking the canteen and running off at top speed, her dirty dress billowing behind her. Ariadne smiled after her.

After she’d given the men a bit of water, she made them as comfortable as possible and continued to her home.

***

For the first few hours, Yusuf didn’t bother asking any questions, though he was curious about the precise circumstances which led Eames to being marched near to death. The possibilities were, admittedly, many.

After several hours of care, the men were more alert and able to speak. However, Yusuf’s hints that he’d like to know what happened were ignored or dismissed and Yusuf left it for the night. 

While they prepared themselves some dinner and some basic weak broth for their guests, Yusuf spoke to Ariadne in hushed tones.

“I don’t think he’s been caught by bounty hunters. He’d have said if it was that.”

Ariadne expertly twisted the large knife around a bone, removing the meat and cubing it. “Is this dangerous, having them here? I mean, how well do you even know this guy?”

Yusuf smiled. “I’ve known him a long time. That doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous having him here. He has a habit of creating ripples wherever he goes. I’ll try to see if anyone else is after him right now, but I think those guys were dangerous enough. We should keep a watch tonight.”

Ariadne shot Yusuf a wary look, though it was softened with fondness, almost amusement even. “Nice friends you have, Yusuf. Classy bunch.”

Yusuf grinned.

Yusuf and Ariadne split guard duty throughout the night, and the following morning they all sat at the kitchen table over cooked oats and honey.

“I want in,” said Yusuf, putting his spoon down with a clink and sitting back.

“No,” said Eames simply, and continued eating.

“I know you’re not being dragged in for bounty, so the only other thing I can think is that you’re involved in something big. Something big for you to be involved means something with a big payday at the end of it. I want in.” Yusuf folded his hands over his belly and tapped his thumbs together.

“No room for tourists on this one, Yusuf. Sorry,” Eames put his spoon down. 

Arthur continued to eat but watched carefully. Ariadne stood and poured them all some more chickory root coffee but kept a wary eye on her guests.

“No gratitude for saving you, then,” said Yusuf affably.

“I’m very grateful,” Eames replied, beginning to smile. “And I’ll remember it on the next one. But not this time.”

“We should get a move on,” said Arthur.

Yusuf looked over. Clearly Arthur considered the matter settled, though it rankled Yusuf to think that he was being summarily dismissed.

“You’re not better yet,” Ariadne pointed out. “Give yourself another day at least.”

“No, much obliged,” said Arthur. “But the sooner we get a move on, the more likely we’ll give those other two the slip. They won’t stay gone long.”

Yusuf huffed a sigh, thinking. “All right. What do you need?”

At Eames’s grin, Yusuf jabbed a finger in Eames’s direction. “But you owe me.”

“Always, Yusuf.”

They were on their way within the hour.

***

The sign was new: “Dusquesne, Pop: 328”, but it already had bullet holes through it. It swung lightly in the breeze, its soft squeak the only sound apart from the clip clop of their own horses.

The houses were at the far end of town, the only road into it lined with shops and more taverns than seemed necessary for a town of that size. A man sat on a bench in front of one of the stores, peering at the newcomers from under his hat and spitting to the side. Any hope Arthur had of slipping in and out of town unnoticed went out the window.

“Grand Union hotel, right there,” Arthur said.

Eames glanced at him. Arthur met the glance casually and then moved towards the horse tie-up. Inwardly he calmed himself, breathing steadily and consciously relaxing his muscles. He had to be alert, and while he prided himself on his ability to improvise, he preferred to know what was coming. But no amount of planning would tell him how Eames would react once the prize was in their hands.

Once they’d entered, Arthur was at a loss. He had no plan and wasn’t sure if they’d be taking a room and then entering, or… the decision was settled when Eames simply walked in, tipped his hat to the woman at the desk, and continued on as if he had every right to be there. Arthur followed suit.

The room was a tired thing with a sagging bed, one threadbare upholstered chair in the corner, and a basin with no mirror.

“Well?” Eames said.

“Hm. We’re down to it, I guess,” said Arthur.

Neither moved into the room, hovering by the doorway.

“Best get this done as quickly as possible so we can get out of here,” Arthur said. “It’s under the floorboards. You start on the left, I’ll start on the right and we’ll work our way inwards.”

Eames nodded, his face lacking his usual amusement, instead projecting a wariness Arthur hadn’t even seen when they were with Robert and Peter. Arthur couldn’t blame him; he felt it too. It’s one thing to know where you stand with a man, another to consider them an unknown quantity. And then there was this: after all they’d been through, and despite not know each other long, there was a hope. Arthur’d never trusted anyone as far as he could throw them and was quite content to continue living that way. But somewhere, somehow, this glimmer of something new snuck up on him. He couldn’t be certain Eames felt it too, but he suspected so from the way he caught Eames looking at him when he thought Arthur couldn’t see.

And there in that room was something worth more money than either of them had seen in a lifetime. Arthur was prepared to split the money fair and square, but he was equally prepared to go out shooting and take it all if Eames decided to betray him. All in all, not a situation he wanted to discover the truth of while hunched over a floor in the worst position to draw his gun. But there was nothing for it.

Arthur rolled up his sleeves, made sure his pistol was as easily accessible as possible from his position on his hands and knees, and began testing the floorboards. 

He only had to pry up every second board or so, and only just a little to see if there was anything under it, and a glance told him Eames had discovered the same thing. It didn’t take long before Arthur heard the squeak, pull, and crack of a board being torn right out and he rushed to Eames’s side.

There under the boards was an odd-looking case. Not leather or bound in steel but smooth and shiny silver. Arthur had never seen its like, and without even knowing what was inside it, he was awed by the obvious worth it had to be protected by something clearly custom made for the purpose.

Eames looked up and for a breathless moment Arthur hovered his fingers over his pistol, looking into Eames’s eyes for a hint of what was to come. The grey of Eames’s eyes was bright and clear in the sunshine coming in through the window, his expression as blank as a master poker player’s. 

With a crash, the door slammed open and Arthur and Eames both went for their guns. But they were taken by surprise and Peter Browning fired two warning shots at the floor in front of their knees.

“Drop them,” he said, slowly stepping into the room. 

They both placed their guns on the floor and Robert stepped forward, aiming at Arthur and kicking the guns out of reach.

“Hand over that case,” said Browning, addressing Eames.

“You know, I don’t think this was meant for you,” said Arthur, keeping his hands visible. Eames had to loosen another floorboard before the case could come out so Arthur seized the opportunity to keep talking. “I was there. When he died. He didn’t mention you. I think this was meant for you, Robert.”

Robert frowned. “And we’re taking it back.”

“Are you?” said Arthur. “From where I stand it looks like he’s calling all the shots. If this thing is indeed owned by anyone at this point, it’s you. I mean, we were quite happy to relieve you of the responsibility, obviously,” he twitched a faux-apologetic smile. “But as long as we’re here talking, I just thought I’d get clear on this one point, since it doesn’t really look like it’s all that clear to you.”

“Who the hell do you think you are,” said Peter Browning, not even a question. He appeared to be restraining greater rage than he was expressing, but he kept glancing at Robert, who was wavering. “I have been running things for Maurice Fischer for years while he’s been sick. I’ve been Robert’s godfather for years.”

“Mm,” said Arthur mildly. “Keep him close, easier to manipulate so you can keep your stranglehold, right?” It was wild conjecture, but Arthur didn’t care. If he was wrong on most points but still managed to hit a few sore spots, it might be enough to distract them long enough to make a move.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” spat Peter. “Without me the Fischer family would be destitute. Without me running things —”

“Don’t you mean without them, _you’d_ be destitute?” Arthur said.

“That case is _mine_!” Peter blurted. 

Robert’s gun hand dropped a few inches as he gaped at his uncle. Arthur dove for his gun just as Eames pulled the case out of the floor. Before he could lay his hand on it, the floor in front of his hand exploded in splinters. 

“I’ll take that case now,” Peter said as Arthur eased back to his original position. “And, while I’m at it, I’ll have everything in your pockets as well. Robert.” He nodded pointedly at Robert to indicate he should do the honours.

Arthur rolled his eyes and kept still while Robert dug through his pockets. Eames had a little more, a few stray bags tucked into interior pockets and his poker chip, small pack of toothpicks, and a couple of cards in a pocket inside his sleeve that had Robert raising an eyebrow.

When Robert stood back and rifled through Arthur’s pocketbook, Arthur’s jaw clenched at the bills he removed before tossing the pocketbook aside. From a medium-sized leather folder from Eames, Robert pulled out some papers. He flicked through, frown becoming deeper before his face lit up.

“What? What is it?” Peter asked.

“Wanted posters. Lots of them. Most don’t really look like him, but I think they all are. Looks like we have ourselves a valuable little prize.”

Peter huffed a laugh, but his face dropped once more into something stern and he ordered Eames tied up. 

While Robert did so, Arthur tried to edge closer to his gun, but Peter twitched his gun and with a condescending “ah, ah, ah!”, he kept Arthur still.

Once Eames was tied up, Peter waved Robert with his bounty out the door and carried the case out himself, backing out with his aim still on Arthur.

“Come after me and I won’t aim for the floor around you, understand?” he said as he left. 

Arthur nodded.

***

With Robert’s gun pointed at his head, there was very little Eames could do but go where he was led. They exited out a rear door, bypassing the lobby altogether. One person was just stepping out of their room but upon seeing the situation, quickly retreated. 

His hands were tied at the wrists behind his back, making mounting the horse difficult. But Peter and Robert both managed to manhandle him up and Robert took his place right behind him, holding him steady with one arm around his waist. They left town the way they came, as fast as they could given the awkwardness of a trussed up captive on a two-rider horse. Peter led the way.

Eames was fairly confident he’d find his opening and escape before being turned in. It wasn’t his first time on this merry go round. However, he was quite disappointed with the turn of events with the case. He really thought he’d had that one. He and Arthur both. And that was another unexpected pang of disappointment. He doubted Arthur would be back, and though Eames was used to rolling with whatever hand life presented him and not planning too far into the future, he found he’d rather been looking forward to further adventures with Arthur. Straight as he seemed, fighting on the side of the law, Eames sensed an appetite for mayhem behind Arthur’s polite, well-spoken exterior. 

They’d only just reached the edge of town, a few sparse trees lining the roadway when Eames’s musings were interrupted by two shots in rapid succession. 

Ahead of him, Peter fell off his horse clutching his shoulder and Robert’s hat went flying forward. Robert reared the horse around and Eames saw Arthur aiming with his pistol over his wrist. Eames barked a laugh, disbelief mingled with something dangerously giddy in his chest.

Arthur holstered his gun and galloped forward. Robert leaped down off his horse and dove towards his uncle, leaving Eames to maneuver himself off the horse himself.

“You okay?” Arthur asked as he approached.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”

They stared at each other for a second before breaking into grins. They turned to Robert, fully expecting to find him hovering over his injured uncle. Instead, they were surprised to find him already mounted with the case in front of him, gun pointed towards them.

“Robert!” Peter said, wincing and clutching his wound.

“Sorry, Uncle Peter. I’ll send some help for you, but this is mine. My responsibility, my inheritance. You’ve run things long enough. And you,” he said to Arthur and Eames. “You need to leave, get far away from here right now. Don’t touch him. If I find out you have, I’ll have you hunted down and killed.”

Eames knew that they outnumbered Robert, and given his own skills and what he’d witnessed of Arthur’s, the odds were they’d both emerge from the exchange of fire. But Eames saw Arthur out of the corner of his eye and remembered what Arthur had said back in the room. It was possible Arthur was just sowing discontent between Peter and Browning in order to facilitate an opening for escape, but it was also possible Arthur really did believe that Robert was the rightful owner of the case. They may be thieves, but Eames had always been an opportunistic one, not a straight up murderer. Perhaps Arthur was the same. Eames kept his gun holstered.

Robert rode off, a trail of dust gradually blurring his retreating form.

***

One town over, Arthur and Eames sat in a saloon over a couple of whiskies that tasted more like rotgut than actual whisky. Eames felt a pang of wistful longing for Yusuf’s brews.

Arthur knocked the rest of his back in one go, a ghost of a wince showing he didn’t think much of the drink either. 

“You’re a pretty crack shot,” Eames said from behind his shot glass before knocking his back too. He waggled it at the bartender to indicate he wanted two more.

“Mm,” said Arthur.

“Reckon you could spring me again? If I was caught, I mean. Hypothetically.”

Arthur’s lips twitched. “Hypothetically, if someone knew you were wanted and turned you in for the reward, you mean? Yeah, I reckon I could.”

“There’s a decent bounty on my head in Barkerville. If, you know. You were planning on heading that way.”

“Barkerville, huh?” Arthur smiled, a youthful thing that brightened his face. He looked hurriedly down at the table, as did Eames in an effort to hide his own smile. 

Two incredibly well-shod feet stopped beside them: shiny black and poking out from beneath tailored trousers impossibly free of dust.

“Mr. Eames? And Arthur.” said the man in clipped tones.

Eames looked up and saw a man, Japanese at a guess, imperious and impeccable.

“And you are…?” Eames said.

“Saito. No need to introduce yourselves, I know all about you. You, Mr. Eames, are rather skilled at escaping recognition and… procuring things that don’t belong to you. And you, Arthur, are the man people go to when people need a complex problem solved.”

Arthur frowned and Eames leaned back in his chair. They all fell silent for a moment while the bartender set down the whiskies and left.

Saito dragged a chair from the neighbouring table and sat in it, leaning forward. “I have a proposition for you. You failed in your attempt to obtain a case. A case containing something known as a PASIV.”

“What of it?” Eames asked.

“That case is currently in the wrong hands. You have no idea how much power that family will wield if allowed to keep that device. I need to know if, given the proper resources and support, you can succeed at procuring that case.”

Arthur and Eames exchanged a glance. Arthur shook his head minutely. Eames raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. Arthur reconsidered for a second, sighed, and turned to Saito.

“It would be difficult.”

“Indeed, but not impossible,” said Saito. “I can ensure you are appropriately compensated. Do you accept?”

Another glance, and this time Eames saw that flash of mayhem.

“I believe we’re the men for the job,” he said.

***END***


End file.
